The Skies Fall

CHAP·TER ONE ·NTOMBI

forever a·go

The sky transitioned from a frigid burning red on the horizon into an early night lavender. It seasoned the air with oncoming rain, and a nine-degree chill of winter. Tonight the onset of storms brought on by each winter appeared less severe than last year. And as with every winter, someone was bound to leave Botswana’s population, to become one of those missing people, one of those who had ‘angered the ancestors. . . .’ It was said that the storms were an act of retribution on mankind.  In comparison to the storms, death was far kinder; at least it left a body behind, while the raging storms left nothing but destroyed homes, turning our quiet town Palapye into something that resembled historical ruins.          

My brother stared at the warm glow of the sun twinkling into twilight, trying his best to drive faster against its death. The car before us had its taillight blinking at us, the plate number was 666.

“Death is winking at us,” I whispered, cringing and hating myself for my impulsivity.

“Don’t worry Ems it will all be fine.” Jon’s face had frozen in fear for a second; it was difficult for him to get over my strange talks sometimes.

“How can the officials bloody set a curfew at sunset? It’s ludicrous.” He whizzed in between slow-moving cars, hooting at every opportunity.

“They’re trying to be on the safe side. You know how fickle these storms are, how indefinite their timing is.”

He gave me a hard-steeled look with dark inhumane eyes. I instantly took back my words.

“It could be you one day.” His voice, spine-chilling, carried intimidating maturity. “It could be Mum, or Tshidi.” Tshidi short for Matshidiso was my twin sister older than me by just two minutes. Apparently that made her old enough to consider herself on the same maturity level as my brother who was twenty-one years old in third year of Medicine.

I couldn’t tell him my thoughts on the storms. I knew I was wrong, but the idea of it happening to me seemed far-fetched. It was too abstract to consider it happening in my periphery, for me to suddenly go missing with no trace. But death caused by the storms was statistically almost as common as drunk driving in Botswana.

“It could be Dad too,” I whispered, then immediately regretted bringing up the topic, which only provoked Jon’s bad temper. Dad was overlooking a building project his architecture firm was working on in the city of Gaborone. It had been three weeks since we last saw him.

“God would be punishing him rightly for leaving his family and putting business before them.”

“Where do you think all those people go?” I asked.

He shrugged his shoulders, his eyes trained inwardly. “Maybe they’re still there.”

I wanted to ask where, but he was looking at the skies, the heavy, grey clouds closing in on our town as if they carried more than turbulent rains. He grumbled something incomprehensible and sped faster into the falling night, reminded yet again that he wouldn’t be able to turn back if the curfew caught him. Lightning touched the land delicately in the far distance; nature was beautiful and harmless at times, when quiet, until I heard the crack of thunder.

“Dammit!” Jon slammed the brakes early enough to avoid hitting the car before him, the last in a long line of traffic.

Far ahead men in neon lime jackets skirted in-between cars, checking cargo as if we were crossing the border. Only the long stretch of road, with nothing more entertaining than trees, separated the two towns of Palapye and Serowe. Palapye lay at the central-eastern edge of Botswana. Grams lived in Serowe and tonight her ‘inconsequential’ maid decided not to pitch, and I was entrusted to keep her company for the weekend.

“Safety-Shmafety. You’d think they do this on purpose.” Jon looked at his watch and hit his steering wheel. It was quarter to seven, fifteen minutes before pure night.

“They won’t let you through to come back,” I said, rather smugly.

“I can’t leave mum and Tshidi back home alone.”

“You’re leaving me and Grams alone,” I countered.

“Your mother is pregnant. Has been for a year and a month; you can be an irritating scatterbrain at times. Honestly Ntombi,” he harrumphed and turned the engine off.

Mum had pulled the plug on the doctors, no more waiting and experimenting or drawing samples from her amniotic fluid. No more sticking needles into the home of her baby. No more questions without endless answers. Thirteen months was only four months away from nine. What really put us off was that mum and Tshidi were comfortable with the situation giving each other serenity and support. The prayers, incense candles and herbal teas Tshidi made turned our home into quite a tension within the family. I understood in many ways why dad stays away long. I know Jon’s anger only concealed his fear for my mother’s life.

“Try and place yourself in her shoes.” I spoke up, “Would you honestly save your life in exchange for the death of your child?” he bit his lip and squinted his eyes in thought.

“Mum’s word is not science. She can’t prove that having a caesarean will ultimately kill the baby. She can’t.” He emphasised, trying to convince himself.

“But would you take that risk?” I fiddled with the cabinet before me. “Mothers have this natural connection to their babies . . .  perhaps it’s that instinct telling her it’s safe. Probably it’s not time yet.”

“Yeah, I remember that story she used tell us about carrying you two,” he ran his hand through his buzz cut hair that complemented his strong jaw and brown dark skin gotten from dad. “You two were born in a little over ten months because you were too busy arguing on who should go first. . . but that’s just fantasy Em.”

“Tshidi nicked me and won the fight, simultaneously giving me this birthmark by my wrist.” Jon laughed, but it didn’t touch his eyes. I traced my hand along the oval birth-mark.

“It was just bedtime stories. This. . .  is insane. Sometimes I think we’re losing her.” he stared again at the storms as if it would be better that they were behind the long pregnancy.

“You’re the only one born in nine months though.” I added to brighten him up.

 That morning Mum had nudged me, pulling my little toes to wake me up. She was carrying a breakfast tray that smelled of sunny-side up eggs, crispy garlic toast, and juicy bacon. I knew she wanted something. It was nice how she didn’t just command it. She wanted me to go stay with Grams and Jon was forced to drive me there.

Jon immediately got out of the car. “Stay put. I’m sure we know someone in this line to give you a lift.”

I knew at that point stores and streets were being evacuated by the authorities. I suppose beggars looked forward to this time, for of course they had shelter and protection. Usually medics, soldiers and police lived in strong makeshift structures in each town, city and village of Botswana, spreading themselves to attend immediately to accidents, to save those who were in danger.

I sighed at my failure to calm Jonathan down, and leaned against the car seat. I wished for once that people would consider what I said, instead of taking me for granted. I listened to the radio warning people to get into their houses. Anyone caught driving past seven o’clock got the same attention as speeding drivers, except the charge was higher – that’s if you made it out alive. Police couldn’t be on the roads when the storms began, risking their lives just to watch any illegal traffic, but the Chinese electronic traffic counters recorded the number plates of cars.

When I arrived at Grams’ late that evening, the weather had picked up, looking gloomier than other days. The trees in the large yard trembled in the wind so violently that it seemed they might be uprooted. I wondered, if I peeled the grey skies back and threw in a sun, would it seem less gloomy? I was upset about being trapped at Grams’ home, for the winds were warring outside over something supernatural we didn’t understand. 

   Grams was by the window, trying to wheel herself outside to protect her garden. I stopped her several times.

“Look at that, this blithering rain is treading down my poor plants. They won’t survive till tomorrow.” Grams treated her plants as humans.

“It’s dangerous to stare out the window.” I approached, trying to pull back her wheelchair, but she had locked it in place.

“That was a superstitious tale I told you girls when you were five; I’m surprised you still remember it. We couldn’t stand by the window for days, afraid that lightning would break it down and take us with it,” she laughed, running her frail fingers across the arms of the wheelchair. Her skin had browned, with the lines of wrinkles finely drawn across her face deepening each time she smiled. “But it’s stormy out tonight; I don’t understand what stupid idiot would still be out there. Villages are sometimes dangerous to live in, so unprotected and open to the wilderness. Being in the house does not completely protect you from the danger. Yes, lightning can still take lives.”

I realized then that perhaps Grams was afraid of thunder and rain. Usually she kept the fire running in the fireplace. I supposed the warmth soothed her nerves. “I saw that in the news, Grams. People have died; this weather has been running for several nights. When Jonathan was driving me over police squads were lined out on the road forcing people to turn back. Forcing them to go back home. This is the only reason I hate winter. every winter this has to happen.”

“Then how did you get here?” Grams turned to me, her face pale.

“The Vilakazis gave me a lift, because Jon had to go back home. I feel like the authorities are hiding something from us.”

“When you can’t show the proof of how people are going missing, except by this weather, then they have to give a standard answer. They are not hiding anything, but trying to protect us. You know how wild it gets when the storms begin.”

I had never forgotten. Our neighbour last year was home alone, his family still visiting friends in Mahalapye. The next morning he was gone. I realised then that people who tended to live alone or were out in the storms just disappeared. We knew the storms killed them, but what happened to those who were supposed to be safe in their houses?

“If you don’t need anything, I better get a head start on the guest room,” I said to Grams.

“Oh, don’t forget that I will set the fire in the open pit tomorrow, so you should be up early to discard any rubbish you find in that room.” Her eyes, hazel with bright gold, sparked to life, adrift in her own thoughts.

“Grams, you should stop doing that, it pollutes the air and other people plus the environment suffer from your actions. Don’t they have some law governing that?”

“In Botswana?” she scoffed. “I haven’t heard of any, and no one seems to be complaining.”

“Grams!”

“Honey, relax. I have long considered that. This is safe fire, there are chemicals created to allow safe backyard burning that kill the pollutants before they are released into the air. So, my little environmentalist, do not worry about that. One would swear you never broke the law before. Life is breaking the law sometimes,” she said distantly.

“What chemicals? I haven’t heard of any.”

“Thank your trustworthy grandmother. Now, I thought you were getting to the guest room.” She waved me away, and turned back to study the weather with a worried expression.

The guest room was also a computer room. It was too bad I couldn’t switch it on to listen to music, for I had forgotten my iPod.  Clothes, which required ironing, were strewn all over the bed. A large mahogany dressing table was backed against the wall and several boxes were crammed to the far corner taped with black tape. Board games were hidden behind several layers of canvas paintings so some pieces were lost and spread on the floor. I shoved the ironing board out of the way.  The helper was supposed to have packed it, but I supposed that was her distasteful way of ‘resigning’. Some books were piled against the wall, ready to topple over. I carried several of them, and decided to put them in Grams’ room, which was surprisingly left open. As children we were never allowed in her room, but I doubted the rule still applied now. I placed the books on the chest of drawers filled with video tapes. She kept it locked since when we were little; to us the chest of drawers was the inaccessible beast. We had fun trying to find ways to get it open.

Smoke was filtering out of the fireplace; Grams must have forgotten to open the damper to allow the smoke to travel up and out of the chimney. But the smoke smelled like incense—sweet and perfumed. It reminded me of the sweet taste of birches that seasoned the forest air behind our house in Palapye. This scent was always present each time the weather was this wild, the source of it just had never occurred to me until now when I peeked into the fire. Hidden in the flames was a leather bound book.

   “Ntombi?”

   “Nothing!” I panicked and jumped when Grams appeared at the doorway. “I mean I was uh. . .bringing in some of your books and uh . . . was just warming myself at the fire.” I stood up, wiping at my knees, trying to hide the anxiety of being caught. “Grams, why didn’t you open the damper? The smoke is filling up the place.”

   “Oh.” Her eyes turned towards the fireplace, curiosity and worry flickered in them. “It’s scented wood. The smoke is harmless; it’s very beneficial for my health.”

   “I should take some for Mum tomorrow,”

   “Well honey, I’ve run out of it and Woolworths has run out of stock.”

   “Oh well, I will check them to find out when they will have it in stock.”

   “Don’t put yourself to such trouble honey, besides I’m really superstitious about your mother and that pregnancy. Forget about the firewood, and get back to cleaning the guest room.” She pushed me out of the room, and I saw how hasty she was about it. When I returned, her bedroom door was locked.

Grams stayed up late in the lounge, reading a novel by the flickering candlelight. The electricity was shut down before the winds began. Each time I crossed the hallway I realized her eyes were still trained on the same page. She would look back towards the curtains and bite her lips. She finally disappeared into her room, and though the violent winds were still busy outside I was still cleaning into the early hours of morning. That’s when I heard it.

   Someone was screaming.

Their voice was high-pitched, stretched into the raucous sky. Thin lines of shooting stars crawled towards the ground, landing as the forms of several men. I hesitated, then grabbed the candle and pressed my face against the window. The clothes the forms wore were made of night. They were staring and scanning the house that stood alone on open land, and immediately scattered when thunder struck. Some disappeared into a blur of speed, others walked, untouched by the power of the wind, towards the little house whose fence had been wrecked.

Hastily others appeared, carrying passed-out neighbours from our village. I saw the Vilakazi boy, who was conscious unlike others, but rattled and frightened. I swallowed thickly, still watching, unable to think or help. The man who was dragging the Vilakazi boy by the leg stopped, picked him up and clamped his throat. The boy flailed in struggle. When he tried to scream again, his voice was snatched, taken, no longer able to sing in fright. I jumped when the window before me fogged. I hadn’t realized I was breathing that hard out of fear. The fog quickly disappeared to reveal an entity standing on the other side.

I fell over, frozen by the calm expression of its white eyes, iris absent but with bright red pupils dilating and constricting. It turned its eyes further away from me, scanning the room, taking interest in its features. I could hear my heart thrashing at my chest; my throat was choked, incapable of screaming, yet I could feel the cold rush of adrenaline thrilling under my skin. The creature’s nostrils were pinched together, but it looked human, though the way it stared around idly and its dark skin gave it an ethereal air. It lifted its leg up and stepped into the house through the large window as if it were an invisible obstacle. I gawked.

   God, please save me.

It picked up a novel resting on the edge of the table and perused it, uninterested, grunting as it dropped it on the floor. It teased the candle’s fire, smiling at the sensation, and knocked it over. Oh God. The candle ignited a small fire on the carpet, stretching out to reach me. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t do anything but watch. I prayed that it wouldn’t sense Grams. Better be only one of us. I knew my life was over when it picked me up.

Through the window I could see the rest fly into the sky, poor Vilakazi in tears. But it dropped with me to the ground. It snorted in a manner that told me the air had a contaminant, an unforeseen irritant. I knew it was dying. All I could smell was the wood fragrance spiralling through the house. I knew that I could live, but I saw its expression. It wouldn’t die in vain. God please don’t let me die with it. Please! A sharp pain cut through the side of my body like acid searing into my flesh. I yelped, but my voice was snapped and hidden elsewhere. Bright light stretched from the being’s fingers like long swords into my skin. It stung like electricity.